


God Bless This Perfect Shitstorm

by Zyzzyva



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Character Study, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Jschlatt-centric (Video Blogging RPF), Recovery, Suicidal Thoughts, oh yeah we're going in, please heed tws at the beginning of the chapters
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 06:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29755704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zyzzyva/pseuds/Zyzzyva
Summary: '	Schlatt hadn’t realized how fuckingboringbeing sober was.And hell, it’s not like he can even call itsoberyet. It hasn’t even been twelve hours, and damn, he can still feel the alcohol in his veins, the last few drops making their way painstakingly out of his system.It had been a bit of a snap decision, a promise to Quackity when he’d been the furthest thing from eventryingto be sober, but damn, Quackity had decided to hold him to it. 'OR: recovery, and what it takes to get there.
Relationships: Alexis | Quackity & Jschlatt, Jschlatt & Toby Smith | Tubbo
Kudos: 44





	God Bless This Perfect Shitstorm

**Author's Note:**

> real quick: for this fic, i want to try to represent addiction & recovery as realistically as possible. if i get anything wrong let me know & i'll fix it as quick as i can. 
> 
> fic title comes from cigarette ahegao by penelope scott & chapter titles come from wishful drinking by tessa violet. 
> 
> tws for the first chapter: the obvious, serious self-deprecation (in reference to addiction), referenced emeto

Schlatt hadn’t realized how fucking _boring_ being sober was.

And hell, it’s not like he can even call it _sober_ yet. It hasn’t even been twelve hours, and damn, he can still feel the alcohol in his veins, the last few drops making their way painstakingly out of his system.

It had been a bit of a snap decision, a promise to Quackity when he’d been the furthest thing from even _trying_ to be sober, but damn, Quackity had decided to hold him to it.

He’d practically busted down the door, waking Schlatt from what might be the last good sleep he gets for a while, if the jittery feeling is anything to go by, and had told him, “This is the day.”

Fuck, man, he hadn’t even remembered making the promise.

But it’s _boring_. The only thing getting him up in the morning is a sip, or a shot if he’s feeling like making particularly bad decisions. Depending on the strength of the liquor, that can get him through the first hour or two, or at least until the end of the first meeting. Then lunch, plenty more booze, and if he’s lucky he’s completely wasted by afternoon. Fucking obviously he can’t _pass out_ until at least the end of the day, but sure, no harm in being a bit out of it for the last few hours. The cabinet can handle whatever the fuck.

Not much time for being bored in the middle of that, but what the hell is he supposed to do now?

Quackity’s dragging him to Niki's bakery. he’d been horrified to hear Schlatt didn’t eat breakfast, though Schlatt doesn’t really get the big deal of it all.

His head’s pounding already, a hangover that would usually be remedied by now. He’d forgotten how stupidly fucking _painful_ they were.

(It could be solved real easily.)

Quackity’s chattering about something or other, so thrilled about the coming day, but Schlatt’s not fooled, doesn’t miss the way Quackity’s so obviously trying to distract him from the way he’s already gritting his teeth.

Niki’s surprised to see them, but she’s courteous enough as Quackity oohs and aahs even as he comes here every fucking day.

Schlatt lets him pick. His stomach’s already roiling anyways, rebelling against the lack of liquor and at the smells of baking bread. He feels sick.

He doesn’t say anything. It’s a bit of a bitch move to feel so shit already, and as much as he thinks this is a stupid fucking idea, he’s not gonna ruin Quackity’s fun.

They leave, Quackity calling a goodbye over his shoulder and Schlatt trying to resist the urge to throw up in the flowers, and make their way to the White House.

(He wouldn’t feel this sick if he just had a little. Just a little.)

They’re early, hours earlier than Schlatt usually arrives, and they’re the first. Quackity grins and invites him to sit on one of the chairs. He wonders whether he can sneak away, and inwardly chides himself on it. No pussy shit today, no hiding away and taking a shot or two, even as his heart soars at the mere fucking thought.

He sits.

“How’re you feeling so far?” Quackity asks, taking a bite of his pastry, and Schlatt cringes at the genuine concern on his face. “Not looking too good.”

Schlatt waves his hand. “I’ll be fine. Just gotta soldier through.”

Quackity’s face pinches. “Tell me the truth, ok? I know you’re all about this cold turkey thing, but let me know how you’re feeling. We gotta make sure nothing serious happens.”

“Yeah. Whatever.” He resists the urge to snap at him, and instead grabs a pastry and takes a firm bite.

At this point he’s usually tipsy at the very least. He’s a lot worse at conversation than he thought, and Quackity doesn’t seem quite sure what to think either. He can’t quite sit still, bouncing his leg idly and pulling at the tie around his neck.

(This would be a lot fucking easier if he was drunk.)

The others start to pile in soon enough. Fundy’s first, obviously trying to hide his surprise that Schlatt’s in the common area and not already holed away in his office already.

(There’s a cabinet in his office calling his name.)

Tubbo’s next, taking a pastry with a grin and sitting beside them. He makes easy conversation with Quackity, and Schlatt tips his head back on the couch and lets himself relax for a minute.

It doesn’t last long, the pounding and the jitters and the fact he still can’t stay still wreaking havoc on his body. He feels like he can’t quite think straight, things not right, not the way they’re supposed to be.

“Schlatt?” that’s Quackity. He sits up and the whole room spins, and goddamn does he feel like throwing up. He steadies himself, and his eyes focus on the man in front of him.

Quackity raises his eyebrows. “you ok?”

Tubbo is staring at him with wide eyes. He wants to yell at him to take a fucking picture. He doesn’t. He really wants to.

He shakes his head. “Yeah, fine. What, am I not allowed to relax?”

He wants to tell Quackity he’ll get a wrinkle between his eyebrows if he doesn’t stop frowning. Is he still fucking drunk?

Tubbo leaves not soon after. He has no fucking clue what the two of them were talking about.

(If he was drunk he wouldn’t care.)

“Alright, big guy,” Quackity says, the nickname he usually only uses when Schlatt’s so out of it he can’t even move. “What’s for today?”

He has the sudden, distinct urge that he wants to cry, which is odd, because he can’t remember when that last was. He hates this.

He puts his head in his hands, and the couch dips as Quackity sits next to him, rests a hand on his shoulder. He wants to pull away, he doesn’t like to be touched, but he’s so fucking exhausted he doesn’t.

He’s not quite bored anymore.

“Want to go to your office?” Quackity asks quietly, and it’s probably because he wants him out of the public eye, because Schlatt prizes his privacy and Quackity knows that.

But he can see it. he can see it, because he has a real nice bourbon in there and wine he doesn’t drink because it doesn’t get him there fast enough and vodka he’s been meaning to finish and some whiskey he bought just because it was fucking expensive even if it tastes like shit, and he wants it so fucking badly, he doesn’t care what it is, he just wants to stop feeling this way and his entire body fucking craves it and he feels like he’s dying.

His hands are shaking so badly, and he’s pretty sure Quackity’s calling his name but he can’t focus on anything except how badly he just _wants it all._

He doesn’t want to be sober anymore, he really, really doesn’t. This was a stupid idea, and Quackity’s a fucking asshole to even suggest it, and he knew he wouldn’t be able to make it, and he can’t, so what’s even the fucking point.

"Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, let’s do the office.”

* * *

  
Quackity, or someone, removed the stock he had on display, and even in the main cabinet, but they didn’t check everywhere.

Addicts are fucking smart, and they should’ve known to look elsewhere. It’s something he learned back when he was still doing the pill shit, but he’s kept it with him.

His hands are shaking so badly it’s hard to pick up much of anything, and he’s reached the fucking disgusting sweating part of it. He’s only reached this stage a few times before, when he was so fucking poor he couldn’t even afford cheap vodka, and it brings up a few memories he really, really doesn’t want to remember.

But he’s got a small bottle of whiskey hidden behind a few books, and it has never, ever looked so appealing, even if it’s the cheap shit.

It’s gone in only a few minutes.

Quackity’s gonna be fucking pissed, they all are, but he genuinely could not give a shit. They shouldn’t have left him alone if they didn’t want this.

It’s their fault.

* * *

Quackity’s more than pissed. Schlatt had just barely gotten to sleep again, head down on his desk like most nights these days, and he wakes up to the sound of glass shattering.

“Are you _fucking serious_?” Quackity’s yelling, and he’s pretty sure he can hear the sound of Tubbo trying to placate him, but he’s not sure.

The whiskey wasn’t enough. What time is it? He’s usually passing out at this point. His head hurts.

“Oh, good, he’s awake,” Quackity exclaims, storming into the room. “Finally awake, asshole? What the _fuck_? I thought you were on board.”

Schlatt resists the urge to put his head back on the desk. “Can you keep your voice down?”

Quackity’s face contorts in a grimace. “I don’t know why I even fucking try. You’re impossible.”

“There’s no point.” Schlatt waves a hand, spinning a bit in his chair. “There was no fucking way it was gonna work. You just gotta accept the facts.”

Tubbo frowns. “You hardly tried, though.”

“I fucking tried,” He sneers, putting a hand on the desk, hard. “You realize how much I fucking drink in a day? That bottle you just threw out? That’s fucking breakfast. Don’t tell me I wasn’t trying. You don’t know how it works, you don’t know how _hard_ it is, how much it _hurts_.”

For the second time that day, he feels tears prick his eyes, and this time he can’t stop it.

He was always an angry crier.

Quackity crumples like a doll into one of the chairs, puts his head in his hands in a similar fashion to Schlatt, earlier.

“I’m sorry,” he says into his hands. “I’m sorry I yelled at you. I get it. Maybe not with alcohol, but you know how I used to be. I know how it is for people not to be understanding, and I’m sorry I put you in that situation.

I’m genuinely trying to help, Schlatt. I care about you. I know how long you’ve been dealing with this, and I want to do what I can. But you have to talk to me. If you’d told me there was shit in here, I could've taken it out. If you need to reduce in increments, that’s fine, I can help you moderate as best I can. but you’ve got to help me help you.”

Tubbo nods. “Me too. Just tell us what you need, ok?”

Schlatt’s lip quivers. He’s never been good with this.

(And he’s too sober for this. He can’t laugh it off.)

“Tomorrow,” he says. “We try again then.”

They grin.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading! please check out the rest of my fics!
> 
> here's my [ ko-fi ](https://yaoyoyoyo.tumblr.com/post/623129308189327360/i-just-finished-setting-up-a-ko-fi-please-check)!  
> here's my [ information on writing commissions ](https://yaoyoyoyo.tumblr.com/post/631112745941712896/hello-ive-finally-decided-to-officially-open)!  
> here's my [ tumblr ](https://anyaskers.tumblr.com/)!
> 
> let me know if any of the links break, and i'll do my best to fix them!  
> please leave some comments, and i'm always, always open to constructive criticism :).


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